The Murder Diaries - Seven Times Over

by David Carter

  Things were looking up.

  When she told her father the news he burst into tears.

  ‘Go for it, girl, grab it while you can!’

  Desiree remained suspicious.

  At the third meeting the fog finally cleared.

  Mrs Bloemfontein was offering Desiree a job once she had finished her studies on the banks of the murky Mersey. Perhaps Desiree had been a little slow on the uptake for she had never conversed with anyone quite like Mrs Bloemfontein before, a woman who weighed up every syllable before it spilled from her lips.

  The job would be well paid, guaranteed contractually for ten years, come what may, everything written down and signed by both parties, one hundred percent legal and watertight. Desiree was even encouraged to seek legal advice over the contract, should she have any doubts.

  In addition, after her five year study programme had been completed, she would be invited to attend exclusive and intensive courses at crammers yet to be agreed, and more even than that, the hefty salary previously mentioned would begin to be paid on the forthcoming January 1st, regardless.

  How cool was that?

  From paying fat tuition fees to landing a weighty salary in a matter of a couple of months. It seemed an amazing transformation. It seemed too good to be true. Things like this didn’t happen in the real world, in Desiree’s world. Nagging doubts continued to bounce into her head. Somehow she kept them at bay.

  There were however, several conditions attached.

  Firstly, she must not discuss the arrangement with her fellow students. It wouldn’t be fair or right if her colleagues discovered that while they were struggling to pay their way through uni, she was actually being paid handsomely for the privilege. She would be required to sign a secrecy agreement, but that seemed a small price to pay.

  She would do it.

  Secondly, it was vital that she maintained her studies and followed clear research programmes, some of which would be suggested by Mrs Bloemfontein. That startled Desiree. She couldn’t possibly agree to research into things that didn’t interest her, but when Mrs Bloemfontein produced a four-page document from her black briefcase that practically mirrored the fields that fascinated Desiree so, the objection was hurriedly withdrawn.

  Thirdly and finally, Desiree would be required to travel overseas during the summer breaks to meet like-minded individuals researching into fields similar to her own.

  ‘Where would I be going?’ she asked.

  ‘Japan, Australia, Germany, the US, everything paid for, five star hotels, first class air travel, and full expenses too. You’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, guardedly. ‘That seems fair enough.’

  What was that phrase, beware of Greeks bearing gifts? she thought more than once. Thankfully Mrs Bloemfontein was clearly not Greek.

  Then Desiree asked, ‘But why me?’

  Mrs Bloemfontein thought about that for a moment.

  ‘Because you come highly recommended. Your initial work is groundbreaking, your tutors are enraptured by your ideas, and frankly my dear, we want to work with you, because we believe you are bound for higher things. You are quite brilliant. We need the very best young brains, the best talent available. You are a shooting star, my girl; we have such high hopes for you.’

  Desiree’s face cracked into a wide smile. She shook her head as if bemused, a little like Mrs Bloemfontein’s favourite dog, as Desi’s long hair danced about her like a black halo, dark eyes shining, her large teeth highlighted by her glowing rouge skin.

  No one had ever been as complimentary to her before. How could she not be impressed? And more to the point, how could she possibly turn the woman down?

  Mrs Bloemfontein set the contracts on the desk.

  ‘You have a month to read them and sign them and return them to me,’ she said, in that same businesslike tone, adding, ‘There’s my telephone number,’ slipping a plain white card bearing a name and two numbers into Desiree’s hand. ‘If you have any queries please feel free to contact me at any time of day or night. If you haven’t signed within the month, the offer’s lapsed.’

  Desiree took the card and the contracts back to her room and read every word, three times over. There was nothing there she couldn’t live with. Her mind was in a whirl. She had to keep reminding herself it had really happened.

  Afterwards, she respected Mrs Bloemfontein’s wishes and didn’t tell a soul of the meetings, or of the employment contract offered, not even her sister.

  Three days later she signed it.

  The following morning she posted the papers to London.

  As far as the Inland Revenue was concerned Desiree Holloway was now officially employed.

  On the following thirtieth of January the first instalment of her hefty salary dumped into her bank account. She had never possessed so much money. She promptly arranged a party, paying for everything herself, explaining that one of the premium bonds her grandmother had bought for her eighteenth birthday, had scrambled from the heap and had paid a healthy dividend.

  ERNIE was paying for the bash.

  It was all a lie, but somehow to Desiree, that made it all the more exciting. They all stood in her room together, drinks in hand, grinning at one another, toasting the Lytham St Annes’ premium bond computer.

  Much later, the memorable night ended with Desiree shovelling the hangers-on out through the door, everyone except her latest pleasure provider, Toby Malone.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Walter glanced again at Jago Cripps’s post-mortem report. He stood up and said, ‘Right! Listen up everyone. Pay attention!’ They were all there, just as Walter had ordered, crammed into the main incident room, Karen sitting opposite, Purple Pamela, as some of the younger ones had come to refer to Cresta Raddish, sitting at the end, Mrs West, standing in the doorway to her office, embracing a fat manila file, as if she hadn’t seen it in months.

  ‘Jago Cripps was drugged up to the eyeballs, a cocktail of drugs, but it was not the drugs that killed him. The killer slit his wrists with either a razor blade or a craft knife. My guess is it was a craft knife. Razor blades are too fiddly to handle, and you can easily cut yourself, so will all those on car searching duties be on the lookout for craft knives. How is that going, by the way?’

  ‘Up to last night we have searched four hundred and eighteen suspect vehicles,’ said Karen.

  ‘Without any result I presume,’ said Walter.

  Karen pursed her lips and shook her head.

  Walter resumed, ‘Of the fifty flats in the block, two are empty and unlived in, the keys are with the agents, thirty-six are owner occupied, and twelve are rented. Of the forty-eight occupied flats, thirty house just a single person, and the other eighteen, a couple. Of course, that is what we are told, it doesn’t mean there aren’t visitors and dossers and sharers, who may well be breaking lease clauses, living and kipping in the building unbeknown to the landlords, so bear that in mind. How many of these people have been interviewed?’

  DC Gibbons, the young guy who was always larking around, answered. ‘All bar six, Guv.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Gibbons glanced down at his papers.

  ‘Three are out of the country on holiday, due back at the weekend, one is in hospital, appendicitis, one is working in Bristol, the local police haven’t found him yet, but they are still looking, and one is due to be seen this morning. He’s been in Glasgow, back at lunchtime.’

  Walter nodded and said, ‘And how many of them saw the killer?’

  There was a noticeable hush.

  The he-she killer’s luck had remained with him, or her, or so it seemed.

  ‘None of them?’ said Walter loudly, as if to emphasise the point.

  ‘None that we can find,’ said Gibbons.

  Walter sighed and said, ‘CCTV? Over to you.’

  Another guy started talking. ‘Yeah, we have CCTV of the Vauxhall on the ring road twice, once heading toward the flat,’ and he flashed up a hideously blurred b
lack and white blow up on the big screen. The only clear feature on the image was the superimposed time and date. 11.16pm. It showed the shadows of two figures sitting in the front seats of the car, but they were unrecognisable. ‘And here it is going back, 2.12am, clearly one person in the car, large baseball cap, face unrecognisable, that’s the last sighting we have. That person sitting there, driving that car without a care in the world, is, or so it would seem, a mass murderer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Walter. ‘What about the CCTV at the swimming pool?’

  ‘Knocked out,’ said the same guy. ‘Some kids stoned it. Should be fixed some time next month, so the council bods say.’

  Walter pulled a face and gave Mrs West a look, as if to say: This is what we have to put up with. Can’t you give them a nudge? She understood, and smiled sympathetically and nodded back.

  Walter resumed. ‘We have not located the murder weapon which the killer may still possess, and nor have we found the car keys, which we must assume the killer has dumped, maybe in the river. How are enquiries progressing on the dating business? How did the killer get to know Jago?’

  Karen answered this time. ‘So far, we have found his details on four dating sites, heterosexual all of them, we have no evidence he was gay.’

  ‘Bet you enjoyed trawling through that lot,’ said Gibbons, grinning at his neighbours.

  ‘Shut up, Gibbons!’ yelled Karen. ‘We are trying catch a serial killer here, you prat!’

  ‘Sorry sarge,’ he said, and he caught the look of contempt on Walter’s face and that was not a good sign.

  Walter sighed loudly and said, ‘Carry on Karen.’

  ‘Two of the four sites are paid for by subscription, you have to log all your details, and two are quite free. The killer had open access to the free sites, anyone can. We’ve looked at Jago’s emails and found the initial contact messages. They were sent anonymously to Jago via a Polish run Internet café in the town. It’s a pay as you go place, no ID required; anyone can just go in and buy fifteen minutes. It’s a very busy place too, doing well apparently, with transient people coming and going all the time, foreign workers, that kind of thing, many of whom can’t speak English. We have no way of checking which of their clients was our boy,’ and Karen made eye contact with Cresta and added, ‘or girl.’

  Cresta nodded her appreciation.

  ‘So Jago’s straight, so he was probably dating a woman on the night he died. You think?’ said Walter as he stared around the room.

  ‘It would seem that way,’ said Karen.

  ‘Maybe it’s a tranny,’ said Gibbons, unable to stop himself laughing.

  A few of the others tittered too.

  ‘No!’ said Walter. ‘This time he may have a point. It could be a transvestite. Why not? Trannies get angry too. There’s nothing to say a killer couldn’t be a tranny. Where would you go in Chester to meet a tranny, I mean is there such a thing as a tranny directory, Pink Pages maybe, help me here, I am out of my comfort zone.’

  ‘There are three clubs in town that are known tranny/fanny/manny places,’ said Gibbons, still grinning.

  ‘Trust you to know that,’ said Karen.

  ‘It would fit perfectly with our earlier idea of a late night worker,’ said Jenny Thompson, still a little backward at contributing to such a packed meeting.

  ‘It would,’ agreed Walter. ‘Thanks Jenny. Gibbons, tonight I want you to work the tranny joints, oh, and take someone with you. Have a few discreet words, if that’s possible. Spread the word that one of their pals could be a killer, see what comes back.’

  ‘I think he should dress the part,’ said Karen.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Gibbons.

  ‘What do you think Cresta? You’ve been quiet.’

  ‘Just waiting to be invited, Walter, that’s all. I don’t know why you are sidetracking on trannies. I have said all along that the killer could be a woman. What little we have to go on supports that fact. Jago met this girl, he seemed convinced she was a bona fide woman otherwise he’d have binned her from the off. This killer is comfortable in her own skin. She appears as a woman and probably is a woman. If any of you are thinking of finding an obvious man dressed as a woman, with ridiculous clothes, a deep voice, heavy make-up, and a bristly chin, then think again. The killer is to all intents and purposes, a woman. If you are looking for something different, you are looking in the wrong place.’

  Walter nodded. He couldn’t argue with any of that and then he said, ‘How did the checking of restaurants go on the night Jago died?’ He already knew the answer to this, asking the question for the benefit of everyone else.

  Another guy joined in. ‘We have a probable sighting, Guv, a possible ID.’

  ‘We do?’ said Walter.

  Everyone paid closer attention. This was the news they wanted to hear.

  ‘Where?’

  The guy nervously looked down at his notes.

  ‘The Black Horse on the Frodsham road. A guy there, a Bulgarian waiter cum barman, he doesn’t speak much English either; he said he thought he recognised Jago’s photo. He remembered him coming in for a meal; he didn’t leave a tip, but he remembers a little about the girl he was with. Said she was blonde, probably, but that wasn’t what he remembered about her, it was her eyes; bright green they were, so he says. It was the only thing he remembered clearly. He couldn’t make up an e-fit; it was just the eyes that made the impression.’

  ‘Bright green eyes, eh?’ said Walter. ‘How many people here have bright green eyes, not many, I’ll bet. I don’t.’ A couple of people giggled at that. ‘Go on, tell me. How many people are here right now? Maybe forty of us. How many of us can boast bright green eyes?’

  ‘Mine are greenish,’ said Gibbons.

  Everyone peered at the bloke.

  ‘Yes they are, but they are not what I would describe as bright green. It’s a rare thing. Don’t underestimate it. We can rule out maybe ninety percent of the population, perhaps more, on this alone. This could be important; the killer probably has bright green eyes. So keep an eye out for that, if you pardon the pun. What’s next?’

  ‘Were there any fingerprints in the flat?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Good question,’ said Karen. ‘The only prints we could find in the flat were Jago’s, and his mother’s, so what does that tell us?’

  ‘He was a sad and lonely bastard,’ quipped Gibbons.

  ‘It also tells us the killer probably wore gloves,’ said Cresta, ‘and women wear gloves much more so than men, especially on a dinner date. I mean, have you ever seen a man wear gloves on a dinner date?’

  No one had.

  ‘Anything on his phone and finance records?’ asked another WPC who had never spoken before that Walter could remember.

  ‘The guy had minor money worries, but who doesn’t in twenty-first century Britain. He was keeping his head above water, just about,’ said Karen.

  ‘What about the drugs, where did they come from?’ asked the same girl, emboldened by her first question.

  ‘Now there we do have a result,’ said Karen. ‘When we interviewed Jago’s work colleagues we found one of the guys there popped up as known to us. Small time drug dealer. It didn’t need much pressure to get him to cough, threatened him with a murder trial if he didn’t. He supplied Jago with everything in his toy box, except the Temazepam.’

  ‘So where did he get that?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Not from his doctor,’ said Karen, ‘I checked.’

  ‘You can buy it on the internet,’ said Gibbons, ‘I checked.’

  Gibbons and Karen shared a look, and a faint smile.

  ‘You can buy just about anything on the Internet these days,’ added Mrs West.

  ‘Too true.’ Walter nodded and sighed. The Internet had a lot to answer for. ‘Anything else?’

  At that moment no one had.

  ‘So to recap,’ he said. ‘The killer is around five feet five inches tall, of slim and sexy build, pert bum, sometimes blonde, definite green eyes, personab
le, attractive, pleasant, wears designer trainers, just the kind of person you would not consider to be a killer. They could be male or female or transvestite, I suspect we shall never know the answer to that until we take the he-she things pants down and take a look.’

  Mrs West and Cresta exchanged a look and a grimace. Walter was still talking. ‘They have a fondness for craft knives, wearing gloves, a lucky person in some respects, they have been incredibly lucky so far, probably drive a dark Japanese hatchback car, aged around thirty, maybe a bit more, so why the hell can’t we find him, she, or it?’

  ‘Because they are so ordinary,’ said Mrs West.

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed Cresta.

  ‘The typical girl next door,’ added Karen.

  ‘Or boy,’ said Walter. ‘Let us not forget that. And there is something else that we should not forget. This killer is killing people, five so far, killing at random, and we believe it is because they are alone, broken up, spurned, lost their partner, binned, single, finished with, call it what you will. This person lives alone, yes?’ and he glanced at Cresta.

  ‘Most likely,’ she said.

  One day Purple Pamela will say something for definite, he thought, but didn’t say.

  ‘We keep looking, we keep checking cars, and bars, we check out the tranny clubs and all the night clubs, come to that.’

  ‘What about casinos?’ suggested Jenny.

  ‘Yeah, them too, good point.’

  ‘Might I make a suggestion?’ said Cresta.

  ‘It’s what you are here for.’

  ‘I think you should do another televised press conference. Say you are closing in, say you have new evidence, say it is only a matter of time, ratchet up the pressure on the....’ and even she hesitated, fighting to find the right word.

  ‘Swine,’ suggested Jenny.

  ‘Twat!’ said Gibbons.

  Karen said, ‘Oh please.’

  ‘Let’s stick with killer, eh,’ said Walter. ‘Or murderer.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ said Mrs West. ‘About doing another press conference. I’ll speak to the TV company.’

  It wasn’t Walter’s favoured strategy, but he wasn’t about to disagree.